


Figure 8

by softstained



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Car Accidents, Homophobia, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 09:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12273933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softstained/pseuds/softstained
Summary: He doesn’t know how long he’s been kept there — hours seem to crawl, minutes seem to sigh, and seconds seem to still.





	Figure 8

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aerisoo12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerisoo12/gifts).



He doesn’t know how long he’s been kept there — hours seem to crawl, minutes seem to sigh, and seconds seem to still. Doesn’t exactly recall how it started either. Blink, and he was on a rooftop, sprinting towards his target. Blink, and he was on the street, falling headfirst in a slow motion. Blink, and his life seemed to pass before his eyes — and then, darkness, before he’s become acquainted too well with every texture of these four walls. Bouts of panic, pleading for help were proven to be futile, with nobody listening.

He’s in a conundrum of time and space, where everything is kept dim to create an illusion of nightfall, and he believes that it’s the reason behind his incessant lethargy. The fact that he is kept away from the constant of time exposes him to common misinterpretations of this entire circumstance as well, and his mind cannot stop thinking despite the persistent headache that whirs against the back of his head.

There’s nothing to be done besides pondering, all factors considered. He’s a body of uncertainties; in here, the reminder of everything in his life, passing him by — his forged normality, his day to day routines. Mundane, almost robotic.

And then, he’s reminded of the man that once was a product of the fate.

He closes his eyes and leans against the back of the chair, slumped as he’s giving up on trying to untie the ropes — all those techniques he self-taught in paranoid probabilities seem to do naught for this situation. Whoever did this was a professional in their job, that even the smallest yet the most crucial detail like this was being carried through precisely.

It has probably been less than a day. He doesn’t feel hunger, more thirst. His throat is parched, and his muscles begin to ache from the stiffness. He cannot even budge, each limb tied closely that he can feel his senses start numbing themselves in protestation. Closes his eyes, knowing that he’s hopeless at this point.

A faint hope coruscates against the crook of his mind: perhaps the police would be able to find out his location, perhaps his butler would locate his whereabouts through the tracker, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Then again, he’s almost certain that the police are more than glad to eliminate him off the grid, considering that he’s not been the most aligned with them moral-wise. His butler, on the other hand, might attempt to find him, yet the chance of having his tracker destroyed seems highly likely.

Whoever is keeping him captive is surely far from being inattentive, and despite his tracker’s covert nature, he’s almost certain that it would be a detail not missed. Heaves a hard exhale, trying to will away the thoughts about his safety, because he knows the truth anyway.

The truth: since the man’s confirmed passing, he’s never felt quite alive, if at all.

 

 

He believes that he’s going to be left for dead when thoughts have gone weary, leaving him with repetitive echoes of possibilities... and the lack of them. It’s been a day; it feels like it at least. The only company that he has is the single light bulb that hangs haphazardly from the ceiling, casting jaundice lights, providing the room with flickering shadows. It seems like it hasn’t been changed for a while; the dust has gathered on its surface, and the place is quiet, uncharacteristically quiet.

He’s tried flitting through the different probable locations, but this one, for some reason, screams six feet underground. A room for a slow dance into the mouth of demise; he might be left there to die on his own, creating a clean death that nobody will unearth. He is buried alive, starved. He inevitably fathoms his slow death, eventual. He can feel it creeping, how everything affects him excruciatingly. Still in his costume, tidbits previously unnoticed, such as how humid the room is that he keeps sweating, the thin yet elastic fabrics that construct his clothing clinging to his skin. It’s definitely one of the worst methods to die — quick deaths have always been the best, and that’s what he’s been aiming for since the news struck... and—

Thoughts shatter when the only door to the room swings open. Kai squints; with his mask covering his vision, he cannot see them quite well. The first thing that he tries to register would be the backdrop behind the silhouette, for it would be in vain trying to identify the stranger from where he is. And he needs to find out where he is in order to devise his escape plan, if ever. But with the utter blackness filling in the space, there’s almost nothing to gauge. He just knows that there’s what seems like a hallway attached to this room, and the person is walking in.

He almost curses under his breath when the person, assumed to be his kidnapper, is disguised as no one else but Kai. His costume, imitated. He peruses the details, noticing that it even has the same amount of the weapons previously stored in his own. Kai struggles in his seat, jaws clenched. "What the— Who are you? What do you want from me?"

His voice is weaker than intended, almost hoarse. The stranger looks at him for a moment, eyes masked that Kai cannot determine what kind of gaze is being directed at him. Shortly after, laughter blooms in the three by three. The kidnapper simply drags another chair, exactly the same as the one where Kai is bound, and he continues struggling in spite of the knowledge that it would be in vain — it wouldn’t be that easy.

The kidnapper sits across him, seat placed with in reverse, the back of it used to prop the kidnapper’s arms as he fixates his gaze on Kai. Amusement is palpable, albeit devoid of visible gestures, and Kai feels extremely vulnerable — a first time since ages. The kidnapper places his chin against a hand, observing. “Kai,” he says, as though tasting the name at the tip of his tongue. His voice also comes out synthesized, like that of Kai’s — deeper, monotonic. “You can call me The Phantom. Not from the opera, obviously. I don’t do too well with singing.”

The Phantom laughs at his own joke, seemingly knowing that Kai finds it unamusing at all. Kai has known him, of course, from the manifestation of chaos that he’s left as a trail throughout the world — a master of disguise, espionage, and everything in-between, The Phantom works for no one but himself, and has been infamous as an international fugitive. Kai has just never thought that out of everything that could be stolen in Seoul, The Phantom chose Kai to kidnap.

Kai stops struggling, knowing that he’s only wasting his energy, making a fool out of himself. While his eyes are covered with the thin, see-through black fabrics, he places his anger into his gaze, trying to send a glare at the kidnapper. It’s almost useless, almost childish, but there’s no other way than that for the time being.

“Don’t be too angry,” he speaks again, mirth standing in place. “I’m not as bad as other criminals. You see, I only aim to steal the most prized possession in the city, and bad news is, you, the vigilante, seem to be loved by too many people. Can’t seem to miss this trophy.”

Kai scoffs. Out of everyone in the city who wants him dead, he’s kidnapped by a thief, kept as a prize. Out of everyone who wants to plant a hole in his head, he might die slowly here, replaced by a lunatic who can easily parade as him anytime. Now nobody would notice that the real Kai is gone. Great, just great.

“Might as well kill me now,” Kai mutters back.

“Kill you?” The Phantom echoes, cooing. “That’d be too easy. Where’s the fun in that?”

Kai looks away, sighing. He’s never felt so powerless. It’s risible, how in a day he can fall from grace — one moment he’s the strongest person he’s known, and the next he’s the weakest, captured into a manmade trap devised by a thief.

A hum from The Phantom, then, as he leans forward, as if perusing Kai closer like an art. Kai furrows his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything, believing that further struggle would leave him looking even more vulnerable than he already is.

“Mm. I cannot wait to discover the person behind this mask.”

Typically, such a circumstance would make his heart drop to his stomach — he wears a mask for the safety of everyone closest to him: a typical heroic motive. But now that he has nothing to lose, he just smirks sarcastically under the veil.

“I think you’ve already known who I am,” even his intonation is sluggish, not sparing any single ounce of care.

A chuckle, indicating that Kai’s guess is true. “Well, don’t spoil the grand reveal for me.” He clacks his tongue against his palate, standing up from the chair to close the gap between them. Kai glares further at him, and continues to do so when the mask is taken off his head, revealing Kim Jongin underneath.

“Kim Jongin,” the name tastes odd against Jongin’s ears, said in the voice changer that closely mimics his own. “Twenty-six, a rising star among the new lawyers in the scene. What a weird coincidence, he’s also an undercover vigilante! What are the odds!” Redundant lilts here and there, and Jongin wishes he could send daggers through glaring alone.

At least he can spit at the kidnapper, and so he does when The Phantom draws close to his face to inspect him. At that, The Phantom simply pulls himself away, laughing. He doesn’t even seem startled, convincing Jongin that he has expected it.

“You’re hot,” The Phantom teases instead, wiping the saliva off his mask’s cheek. “Too bad you might be straight.”

Jongin looks away at that — the topic tiptoes around his utmost weaknesses.

“Oh? No?” The Phantom carries on with that mirthful attitude, and Jongin looks back up in ire.

“Fuck off!”

He sounds frail, voice at the edge of breaking, and he doesn’t think it would make any effect on the thief. He’s pretty certain that The Phantom would continue with his teasing, but he cannot be more wrong. Instead, The Phantom raises his hands, signifying a surrender, and with a chuckle takes a few steps back. “Calm down, kiddo.”

The kidnapper retreats from the room, closing the door, leaving Jongin stunned.

 

 

Time exists in a vacuum, and he doesn’t know how long he’s been crying — trying to stop but to no avail. In his head, the last email he received sinks into the forefront of his mind again. The question simply reminded him of the core to their relationship, left unfinished like words in a page which side is charred from flames. He lets out another sigh, trying to will away the lump that swells in his chest, obstructing his breathing as he’s just stopped heaving from the harsh bout of cry for what felt like hours.

He’s left with a hiccup, and a pain that pinpricks the base of his throat.

In memoriam of a man whose rotten corpse was found in his abode; buried with the casket alongside Jongin’s own. He’d always like to convince himself otherwise — count your blessings, count your blessings, count your blessings. He’s tried continuing with life without the emails, without the phone calls. He’s tried continuing with life with the knowledge of the man’s remains decaying down under, but he cannot lie to himself now. Not when he’s known best that he himself is in ashes, his corroding heart can be found against the crook of the skeleton’s chest.

 

 

The next thing that he knows is that he’s fallen asleep, and he wakes up to the company of the kidnapper; uninvited, unwanted. He stirs from the dreamless sleep ( or was it a nap? ), glaring at the presence that reminds him of his current quandary. The man simply chuckles, as though feigning innocence.

“Did you sleep well, Beauty?” he mocks, tone still as playful.

Jongin leaves the comment without a reply, looking away. The Phantom doesn’t continue, seemingly not interested in a reply either. Instead, he walks around the room, as though flaunting his freedom to Jongin. Jongin can almost feel the cynical smile worn by the kidnapper, although perhaps it’s something that he merely surmises.

The silence that hangs in the air gathers like the grains of dust that have been coloring this room, and after what seems like an eternity, and the third round that The Phantom has made around the room while maintaining his gaze on Jongin, Jongin eventually relents.

“What do you actually want from me?” he asks, despair painted clear in his voice. “You can just kill me and get it over with. You want the whole city to believe that you’re Kai? Go ahead, you’ve got everything down. Bet you’ve known everything about me.”

A tsk from the thief, stopping in his track to listen. “Well, well,” he lilts. “You don’t really think I would actually explain my scheme, do you? I thought you would be… less dense than that. We all know that villains don’t really expose themselves until the end of the story.”

Jongin scoffs in return. “I wouldn’t know the end of the story if I die.”

“You’re right. Let’s change the game a little. Say… I don’t want to kill you,” he draws closer to Jongin, still watching, still observing. “Say… I know your weaknesses, and I’d like to conduct an experiment.”

His mind doesn’t reach too many places — weaknesses, depending on their severities, could mean different degrees of exposures. On the superficial level, he believes that the thief would’ve known of his parent, mother deceased from giving birth, father with too much inheritance deposited under Jongin’s name, ensuring him of an immense wealth. It’s superficial — his direct relatives are the ones targeted the most, the main reason of his alter ego’s existence. It also means that the direct measures taken from his end also pertain to his father — he has his own channels to make sure of Appa’s safety.

Level two clearing means his friends, acquaintances. Most of the time, colleagues — he doesn’t indulge in social life too much, preferring to keep to himself most of the time. Close friendships that he maintains are few, and they’re surrounded by families and friends, so Jongin places a third priority in order.

Level three, his butler. His closest relative, Jang Seunghyun has been working for his family — and primarily, him — since he was around six years old. Two decades long of unbending loyalty, and for that, Jongin places all resources that he has to convince himself that the man he’s taken as his godfather is always in a safe place, regardless of what happens to Jongin — regardless of the connection Seunghyun bears to Kai.

And that’s what Jongin fears the most.

He swallows, looking back up, lifting his gaze to meet the thief’s to promote a sense of bravery. But it falters as soon as The Phantom flicks something foreign out of his pocket. It lands on the floor, just across Jongin, and for that, he swears his heart skipped a beat.

An empty polaroid, the placeholder is blackened.

The thief leaves the room without a word, but the implication is more than enough for Jongin to curse at the kidnapper from the top of his lungs, despite the closed door.

 

 

This is all that he knows: The Phantom’s plan is more than a simple torture, a thoughtless scheme. He’s not kidnapping Kai for his value as a vigilante; he’s kidnapping Kai for reasons highly unknown. Jongin cannot even begin to fathom what the reasons behind this might be, in spite of the clues, in spite of the signs.

Psychological torture, and the thief knows where to hit, precisely so.

And for that, Jongin is far from knowing how to react. The tattoo along the seam of his right ribs burns even when he cannot see it.

 

 

He wakes up with tear-stained cheeks, dried, leaving the trace of thoughts across his face. The factor that wakes him up: a stab to his now gloveless hand, a needle inserted into his vein. An IV to keep him alive, in a sense, and for that, Jongin doesn’t know what to think, especially with his mind still hazed from the weight of his fitful slumber.

“It’s a little uncomfortable, I’m sorry,” his kidnapper speaks, his tone as lax as ever. “Gotta keep you alive. There’s no point in keeping a corpse as a company.”

“Sure,” he replies sarcastically. “I’m surely here to keep you company.”

A hum as The Phantom is back to his seat, closer to Jongin this time. “You see, we can make it more… interesting.”

“Make _what_ more interesting?”

“This entire game.” Jongin can feel a smirk forming underneath that mask.

“I don’t want to play it.”

“Unfortunately, life doesn’t always give you a choice,” he shrugs, nonchalant. “Let’s say… we’ll play twenty questions, but it’s going to be one-sided. You will ask me questions, and I’ll tell you a story about each.”

Jongin rolls his eyes. “What makes you think I’m going to oblige?”

“What makes me think you’re not? You’re my hostage,” he chuckles. “You’re either going to talk to me, or you’re going to rot alone in this room. Plus,” another hum, “your butler might not be in the safest place right now. He cares so much about you, you see. What wouldn’t he do to get information about your whereabouts right now?”

Jongin looks away; not like he’s hold any power over this circumstance to begin with.

“Name,” he starts half-heartedly, trying to lock his gaze on The Phantom.

“Kim Jongin. It cannot be a long story, because unfortunately your mother died after giving birth to you. Your father, on the other hand, perhaps wasn’t the one giving the name to you. Seeing the soft tone to it, I believe it was your mother’s choice.”

At that, Jongin furrows his eyebrows, then sighs. He knows he has nothing to hide from the thief — an insane man with an insane access to whatever database that holds such information. He cannot win a game against a madman, designed by a madman.

“Age,” he drawls, trying to think of a way to gauge the man’s skill — and after that, perhaps approximate his chance of survival. So far, it’s been close to naught; the man has been unreadable at best.

“Twenty-six,” The Phantom shakes his head. “January 14th, 1991. Born and raised in Gangnam, Seoul. Do I need to go through your childhood through your adulthood? Nah. Too boring. Skip, next.”

“Whereabouts,” Jongin tries this time, even though he knows he’ll fail.

“Nice try,” he laughs. “You’re locked up in a basement, location unknown. There’s nothing to trace your whereabouts — everything about your trackers has been deactivated, and this place owns no electronic device that can be tracked. Don’t worry — you’re safe with me. Next.”

“The company at the moment, then,” tries again. “Tell me about him.”

“Oh, indeed, I haven’t properly introduced myself, so might as well seize this chance for it. The name’s The Phantom, and my specialty lies in various areas, but this is my first kidnapping. I’m doing it quite well, if you’d like my honest opinion. Anyway, enough bragging about myself. The little story here is that I’ve been watching you for quite a bit, enough to gather all this information about you. Hey, I even know your favorite colors. The walls have ears, which you hadn’t been careful about… when you were spending your youth in a room with a boy.”

At that, his heart drops to his stomach, again, the feelings suffocating. He wants to shut his ears, not listening to every word the thief says about the boy who once used to comb his fingers through Jongin’s hair as Jongin lays his head on the boy’s lap. “Shut up,” Jongin speaks, almost demanding. “You know everything, I get it. Just — Just stop.”

He feels extremely vulnerable, with his torso slit open for everyone to spectate his insides. He hasn’t felt this way for too long — his façade as a lawyer with his wit sitting on his tongue definitely carved a different route, a forked impression. But in here, with everything about his past laid bare, he feels helpless, he feels naked.

“You know — you hate me. If not now, then you will. And you’ll know why,” the thief lilts again, and Jongin doesn’t quite understand. Thoughts are too submerged in the weight of nostalgia, and so, when the thief leaves the room, he’s grateful for it.

 

 

He cries until he fails to register his state of mind. Memories are cluttered, scattered across his headspace, and when he tries to trace the thread, finding the beginning of everything, he almost doesn’t recognize the faces in his thoughts anymore.

The youth painted in their faces was a briefness that once were plastered all across his thoughts, but these days, he’s learned to forget. Until The Phantom came to ruin everything that he’s built to protect himself, that is.

He’s never stopped bleeding — all the scar tissues are play-pretend, a thin gossamer layer that tears open at the slightest sear. And now, the hemorrhage sinks him into the corners of suppressed nostalgia, once bittersweet memoirs, now unabridged lachrymose. Whoever he is, The Phantom is not here to kill him — The Phantom is here to make him kill himself.

He’s been careless, leaking too much bloodspill for strangers to collect: from the dates they flaunted in the open to the cries of bereavement that he’s shown along the plane trip from New York to Seoul — everything is free for people to peruse.

It’s happened once, ending up in Kyungsoo’s father sending his only son to New York to ensure that he’d have nothing to do with Jongin anymore — ending up in Jongin’s typically composed self to break, sending the “friend” to the ground with relentless punches. A lesson underneath the jaundice lights of the nightscape; still, it didn’t return Kyungsoo to Seoul. Just a moment of relief, and Kyungsoo was still gone.

He heaves, again and again, trying to will away the thoughts of anger against Kyungsoo’s father — the man sitting on a certain peak of the police department, one of the reasons why Kai doesn’t work hand-in-hand with the law enforcement. He was, after all, the man who also brought Kyungsoo up by himself after the divorce, and for that, Jongin was against the idea of Kyungsoo rebelling against the man.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so righteous. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so selfless.

If he hadn’t been such a fool, being reckless when he didn’t have wings, he wouldn’t have lost Kyungsoo to fate.

And in his mind: the police record of the accident, leaving Kyungsoo in plumes.

The dental record was fitting, everything checked out.

It was an accident, they said.

He was drunk, they said.

 

 

In the yellowing collections of these photographs, Kyungsoo was almost never drunk, his system diluting the alcohol faster than anyone Jongin had ever known. He was the one to drive Jongin home all the time, understanding that Jongin did not stomach his alcohol too well, in spite of having a penchant towards liking soju. To know that Kyungsoo was drunk, heavily, to the point of having his life taken, wrought Jongin into manmade ruins.

In the yellowing collections of these photographs, Kyungsoo was smiling alongside Jongin, if not alone with a scene in the backdrop to show Jongin places he spent his life in. They sent these polaroid pictures weekly, timestamped, lettered; Jongin taped everything that Kyungsoo sent on the walls and ceilings of his bedroom, surrounding himself with the sillage that was the man’s presence. In here, “Jongin, I got the job!” In here, “I love you, I love you, I love you so much it hurts.” In here, “I miss you.”

In the yellowing collections of these photographs, some things remain undocumented, left in the crooks of time to wither in the fragile construct of Jongin’s memory. These were moments spent in high school; how they met for the first time in judo club, how they were paired for a spar as the aces of their respective years. Secret rooftop dates, secret theme park dates. Hand-in-hand, towards the end of their boyhoods: at the end of the lane, he found himself slipping the ring into Kyungsoo’s finger, and getting a matching tattoo along the seam of his ribs,

and saying, “I do.”

 

 

He eventually falls asleep out of fatigue, more emotional than physical, the walk to remember wearing him down to the point of night terrors. He thinks he’s screaming in his sleep.

In his dreams, he’s standing on the end of a lane, under the jaundice lights of the street lamps, overlooking an empty street drenched in rainwater. He’s on a standstill, unable to move, and from afar, the sound of car engines rumbling closer. And then, the headlights, causing him to squint at the contrast. Against the darkness, the brightness seems to almost blind him, and he wants to look away but he cannot — he wants to look away from the car that dives past the gated road, straight into the emptiness. Then, an explosion, flames billowing towards the emptied skies. He doesn’t blink, and in his mouth: Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo. He screams so hard he can hear the tragedy echoing his voice.

Another scene presents an improbability. He’s laying his head on Kyungsoo’s lap as Kyungsoo is reading a book, eyebrows furrowed in focus. His index finger idly draws irregular patterns on Kyungsoo’s toned stomach, bare — and goodness, just how much has he missed this moment? He closes his eyes, and lets the serenity settle in, until he feels the rustle underneath him.

“Hyung?” he opens his eyes, and finds that Kyungsoo is putting his t-shirt on.

“I’m going to grab some newspapers for a bit,” a heart-shaped smile, and Jongin nods despite his own unease. He removes himself from Kyungsoo, but cannot help the feelings that nag, so he grabs Kyungsoo’s wrist instead.

“Don’t go,” he demands, pouting lightly, as if playful yet he’s anything but.

“Why?” Kyungsoo asks back, eyebrows raised. And Jongin takes in the sight: Kyungsoo’s unkempt bed hair, Kyungsoo’s fair skin, Kyungsoo’s broad shoulders. “I won’t be long.”

“Okay,” he eventually relents. And he shouldn’t have, he shouldn’t have, he shouldn’t have, for it ends with the police standing in front of their door, telling him the news that Kyungsoo died in a car crash.

He thinks someone is stroking his cheek as he screams again, and again, and again.

He heaves in his sleep, wanting to wake up but the nightmares have him in its iron fists, and in the last scene is a memory long-buried in the attempts to forget what once was rapture.

In this scheme that the universe plays, this piece of mind is unearthed: their history, written on the paper to burn. Flashes of their days as judo aces, sparring together after hours just to have the moments for themselves, before shy glances becoming fixed gazes, before uttered words becoming intimate gestures. And as if on cue, the rest of their pages start turning, telling the stories. On this page, how Kyungsoo walks him home even though his own is in the opposite way. On this page, how Kyungsoo tells him about love and how it reminds him of Jongin. On this page, how Kyungsoo asks him to become something more than friends.

And on this page, where Kyungsoo presses kisses along the lines of his inner thighs after making love to him, whispering sweet, honest words; and for hours, they will lie next to each other, limbs tangled, Jongin’s nose nuzzling the crook of Kyungsoo’s neck, inhaling the sillage on Kyungsoo’s skin.

The pages are running thin. Jongin is scared.

 

 

His throat is aching when he wakes up, and it’s right when the thief walks into the room, bringing a bottle of water. Jongin doesn’t even have the energy to simply glare at him anymore, leaving The Phantom to do what he wants to. The Phantom doesn’t say anything, however, and Jongin resents the fact that The Phantom is always fully masked, disguising the emotions entirely that Jongin cannot simply perceive the situation that he’s in.

It’s simply weird when The Phantom offers the water to him, with a straw for Jongin to sip it from, but he’s not in the place to turn down any offer like this — even if it’s based on pity. He takes a grateful sip, and some more, but not without casting a questioning look at the thief.

“Is this how you treat someone when they do you a favor?” Eventually, The Phantom starts again, still with his old lilts. Jongin learns to despise it, but in his vulnerability, he simply cannot muster the energy to even hate on it. “I suppose a ‘thank you’ would do, but… if you insist.”

“Thank you,” Jongin manages eventually, voice hoarse. “After everything you’ve done, you still have some basic human decencies, at least.”

“Oh, my pleasure, love,” The Phantom chuckles, watching as Jongin sips some more water. “So, apparently, everything I’ve done has driven you to nightmares. Interesting.”

“Interesting indeed,” Jongin echoes.

“So, the name you called in your sl—“

“Stop,” Jongin hurriedly demands. “Please.”

“Kyungsoo,” The Phantom ignores him this time, ignoring the ire that smothers in Jongin’s gaze. “Do Kyungsoo.”

“What the fuck do you actually want from me? You know about him,” Jongin spits. “You know he’s dead. Why? Why are you doing this to me?”

The Phantom hums, as if thinking. “You’re right — _why_ is a good question,” he speaks in that playful tone again. “It’s an experiment.”

“You’re trying to drive me to insanity,” Jongin concludes.

“Perhaps,” he shakes his head, amused. “But then again, there’s no fun in letting you know about the entire scheme. It’s a scheme for a reason, you see. And… pray tell, how would your dear Kyungsoo react if he’d known you were a vigilante? Endangering yourself while he was miles away… Not a good feeling, don’t you think?”

Jongin wants to retort, but nothing comes out of his mouth. Just an entire thought implanted, not knowing how to process this; he’s never thought of it. At that, The Phantom laughs.

“Not that easy to answer, I see.” He readies himself to leave again, throwing the empty bottle into the trash bin not far from where Jongin is.

“How’d you know that he didn’t know?” is all that Jongin can muster to ask, and it’s met by a deafening moment of silence.

“I know a lot of things,” The Phantom shrugs. “Remember, the walls have ears.”

He still leaves an impression of mirth with his lilts, but Jongin still doesn’t forget the pause even long after The Phantom’s disappearance behind the closed door.

 

 

The Phantom walks back in after what feels like hours for Jongin, and he’s bringing some things with him. Jongin squints, trying to make out as to what they are, but realization doesn’t dawn on him until The Phantom tapes the pictures on the wall. One by one, slowly, taking his time with it.

It’s of Jongin — the polaroid pictures that he’s sent to Kyungsoo, weekly, amounting up to years. The witnesses of their relationship, strengthened by boundaries of the distance. Jongin wants to react — wants to struggle, but he knows he’ll only worsen his own state. So he just stares as the pictures of the walls grow, creating a line of memories, arranged according to the dates.

He doesn’t know what else to do. Silent tears start streaking down his cheeks as he recounts the memories of writing the letters, of taking the pictures. He wants to plead — wants to say anything, get on his knees perhaps; but knows that the thief’s ultimate plan doesn’t lie there. He looks down, squeezing his eyes shut, willing for the tears to stop. He has never felt so frail, so exposed.

And that’s when The Phantom begins to hum a familiar song.

“Stop,” Jongin begs this time. “Please. You’ve won. Please stop.”

The humming stops, but The Phantom still continues with his work until the last picture. From afar, he cannot see himself in each picture, but Jongin doesn’t need the sight to inhale the implications.

When The Phantom settles back onto the seat, Jongin looks down in submission, not wanting his weaknesses to be exploited further. At that, The Phantom reaches out, tilting Jongin’s chin up. At the touch, shiver runs down Jongin’s spine. “You should do something for yourself, you see,” The Phantom says, again, in cryptic messages Jongin cannot decipher. “You would die for people who don’t even know you — find someone who would die in your stead for you.”

Again, another skipped heartbeat. “What… Why would someone…”

“Oh, come on,” The Phantom scoffs. “Maybe that unfortunate soul would’ve died for you, you see. You shouldn’t devalue yourself… Also, speaking of dying for strangers, ever thought of stopping being a hero?”

Jongin is genuinely taken aback by the question this time. “No,” he speaks in honesty. “No, I haven’t.”

A chuckle. “You’re too holy for your own good.”

“Am I?” Jongin retorts, a sinister smile on his lips. “Maybe I just have a death wish, you know.”

“Oh? Because of the dead man?” The Phantom casually asks.

Jongin shrugs, and when The Phantom leaves the room for the umpteenth time, he still wonders about what the entire gestures signified.

 

 

The next moment that Jongin is aware of The Phantom’s presence is when the room is darkened, and there’s almost no light to even make a silhouette out, but if the mask is imitated according to Kai’s, Jongin knows that The Phantom would be able to see with ease. The Phantom is being quiet this time, leaving the room somber for some reason. Jongin feels uncomfortable, clearing his throat to alert the thief of his waking up.

“Oh, you’re up,” The Phantom speaks, voice lower this time — softer this time. “Don’t worry, you won’t be for long.”

“What—“

“Sleep well, Beauty,” he whispers back as Jongin feels the surge of sudden lethargy streaming into his veins.

 

 

Everything happened too rapidly for his mind to digest: the police rescue, the tattered information, and the truth misconceptions. It feels like a dream — surely so when he’s being told that amidst the crumbling scheme of the thief, he was found from the coordinates given by Kai. On the tip of his tongue, the confession that he’s Kai, that he’s here, but after the façade of reality falls like the curtains in this grand show designed by The Phantom, he knows that something does not quite add up.

He doesn’t know how else to react, letting the police do their job, cutting the ropes off. When he’s free, he immediately staggers out of the room, believing that his answers would lie somewhere in this place — it is, after all, The Phantom’s lair. And that’s when he stumbles upon a room at the corner of the long, rundown hallway: it’s a three by three at the maximum, and there’s almost nothing in this room. It’s left bare, as though The Phantom had packed everything up prior to leaving, except for the apparent newspaper cuts pasted on the walls. All about Kai, indubitably — and some about the Black Dragons, Kai’s biggest enemy.

There’s a cot pushed against the side of the room, and the only source of lights is the same light bulb dangling off the ceiling. Almost nothing besides the articles on the wall, until Jongin realizes the pinned polaroid picture amidst it all. It’s of him; the last polaroid that he sent to Kyungsoo before Kyungsoo’s death.

And after seeing that, he rips it off the wall, and scurries off the basement.

 

 

Isn’t it strange, thinking about it, that The Phantom emerged a brief moment after Kyungsoo’s death, his name echoed throughout the world with the multitude of discords that he created? Jongin did not think in coincidences, treating them as two separate events, detached from each other.

Isn’t it strange, thinking about it, that The Phantom seemed to know everything that he shouldn’t have, everything about Jongin, with all the clues leading to the point where it’s clear that the thief was stalking him? Jongin did not have it in mind, missing the correlations he usually would’ve easily spotted, too immersed in the unearthed nostalgia that shattered him all over again.

Isn’t it strange, thinking about it, that The Phantom always left the room after torturing Jongin instead of relishing in the aftermath of his words? Isn’t it strange? Isn’t it strange? Isn’t it—

The coincidences were never coincidences. It was an entire scheme devised by a genius that knows every point of Jongin’s weaknesses, exploiting each dot to achieve what he wanted. But what does Kyungsoo want—

In the small closure of this car, as he’s being brought away from the corner of the city, he can hear the siren songs, subdued. On habits, he turns on the radio, ignoring Seunghyun’s question about whether or not he needs to head to the hospital.

“—gunshots heard and reported by the neighboring citizens. The notable casualties come from the infamous syndicate, the Black Dragons, and the vigilante, Kai.”

 

 

“No, no, no,” he mutters, rushing into the scene, pushing past people until he’s stopped by a brigade of police securing the area. “No, please! Please, that’s — that’s my husband. Please!”

He manages to break through, and he feels like collapsing when the stench of blood is carried by the October rain. He staggers close to where The Phantom is, knees trembling. And when he kneels to unmask the thief, the precision of the prediction did not prepare him for this. Kyungsoo’s face is soaked in rainwater, with his blood spreading in blooms on the asphalt road. He doesn’t know what to do, caressing the side of the lifeless face before cradling Kyungsoo against his chest, letting out a scream at the top of his lungs.

 

 

He receives the letter a month after, in a cold morning with his breath wafts in frail smokes. He hasn’t slept quite much these days, moving from hotels to hotels, trying to find a ceiling that doesn’t remind him of his own, where polaroid pictures used to be taped alongside the fairy lights. He hasn’t slept quite much these days, wandering from streets to streets, trying to erase memories of a man with a heart-shaped smile, where open-mouthed kisses used to be pressed against the contours of the mouth.

He’s midway towards the elevator of his apartment when the guard alerts him of the letter sent this morning via an anonymous sender, requested to be delivered in person.

A brown envelope, a familiar scrawl, and a tape recording.

**Author's Note:**

> So, first and foremost, I’d like to thank everyone who has read it from the bottom of my heart — it’s a story with a lot of heartbreaks coming from my end, and I hope you found it sad, too. As I didn’t have any beta, I’d like to also thank those who’ve been supporting me from the beginning to the ending, believing in the fact that I could finish it — thank you, thank you. Your feedbacks mean, and will mean the world to me — so in advance, thank you for your feedbacks. For the mods, thank you for being patient with me and making it possible for me to finish! For my prompter, thank you for your prompts, I’m sorry for not doing it any justice. It was meant to be a soulmate AU, but it’s not even that at all. I hope you still found this enjoyable, however! And again, thank you for any feedback that you might give to this mess. <3 PS. The title is from Ellie Goulding’s Figure 8; so if you’d like an extra effect, please give it a listen!


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